


the smallest light shines brightest in the depth of night

by lacedwithlilacs



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 07:33:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18069230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacedwithlilacs/pseuds/lacedwithlilacs
Summary: Kassandra returns to him in the middle of the night, stalking into Brasidas’s apartment and wordlessly slips into his bed. The woman you love sneaking into your home after four months apart seems like a fairy tale, but Kassandra herself is a legend for most, so he should expect these kinds of things from her and yet he doesn’t.





	the smallest light shines brightest in the depth of night

**Author's Note:**

> writing 3900 words is easy compared to thinking of a title for it all. i thought about writing this when the second episode of the first blade DLC came out, but i wasn't very motivated. then when the third episode was released, i got inspired by the non-stop crying fest. only happiness for kassandra from here on out, ok ubisoft?

Kassandra returns to him in the middle of the night, stalking into Brasidas’s apartment and wordlessly slips into his bed. In his haze of sleep, he doesn’t notice the oddity of it all; she’s been gone for almost four months at this point. Eventually, the fog of his mind clears enough for him to realize that she’s here, alive and well and in his arms and he nearly topples out of bed in surprise. She gently chuckles at his surprise because she probably planned all of this, including him flailing awkwardly on the edge of the bed. 

The moonlight pours in his window, but the room is still dark and the shadows cast heavy darkness over her features. It is only after he grabs at her shoulders and pulls her in for a kiss that he notices the drying trail of tears running down her face. “Brasidas,” she whispers as their foreheads press together, their breath mixing between them in a way he has dreamed about for the past four months. He brings his hands to her face, cradles her jaw and presses kisses to her nose, cheeks, temple, everywhere. He has missed her. 

Kassandra brings her hand up to eclipse his, tugging softly at his hand and pulling it away. Her shoulders shake rhythmically and he realizes she’s silently crying. He doesn’t know what’s wrong and instinctively he checks her over the best he can in the dimness for any missing appendages or any jarring differences than when she had sailed southward in the spring. She guides his hand down her torso until it rests on her lower abdomen, the flesh that’s usually soft and toned is hard and bulging. 

The only thing Brasidas hears is the blood rushing in his ears as he pulls her closer, his hand running along the curve of her waist. He looks at her face, though he can’t see her emotions in the shadows, his stomach coiling into knots. He must be mistaken, must be misunderstanding what she’s trying to say. “Kassandra,” he breathes out, momentarily surprised by the roughness of his own voice before he remembers he was sleeping until a few minutes ago. “Are you,” he trails off, because he doesn’t want to say anything that will be taken the wrong way. She could have just eaten too much in Krete. 

“Yes,” her choked reply sounds so foreign from her. It takes him a moment to place it, before he realizes that the unfamiliarity comes from the fear in her voice. “I’m pregnant. You,” he feels tears prick at the corners of his vision as she swallows down a sob, “you’re going to be a father.” 

Surely he’s still dreaming. The woman you love sneaking into your home after four months apart with news of a child seems like a fairy tale. But Kassandra herself is a legend for most, so he should expect these kinds of things from her and yet he doesn’t. In the dark, she cries into his bare shoulder, her tears hot on his skin as they roll down her jaw. “I don’t know how to do this,” she mutters against his scar from Amphipolis, kissing at the mark between gasps. _I’m scared_ , he fills in for her, because he knows she’ll never say words that she sees as a sign of weakness. 

“It will be alright.” He reassures her, gently pulling at the string in her braid, teasing her hair out and combing his fingers through it. He remembers last time she cried like this, as openly as he thinks she’s capable of. In his tent in Amphipolis, when the healers left them alone after he’d woken from his drugged sleep. She had told him how she had prayed to every god nightly, how she had lost her little Phoibe and she wasn’t about to lose him too, to the same ugly fate of Kosmos. He feels his own tears trail down his face as he pulls her into a tight embrace and soothes her. “We’ll make it through this like we’ve made it through everything else, despite the odds.” 

Three days later, they’re eating a simple dinner together in his apartment as she tells him about Krete. The stifling heat there sounds unbearable from the way she describes it, the wide-open land dotted with cacti and brush. Perhaps in the winter it would be manageable, but the sun is strong and out for hours in the dog days of summer. He prefers seeing his breath in the dead of night and the turning of leaves in Makedonia to the deserts of Krete. 

He can dwell on the image of the land, with visible waves of heat rising up from the dry dust, because he cannot imagine her tales of the Minotaur. Kassandra retells the tale for him, following Theseus’s silk thread to come face to face with the Minotaur himself, standing as tall as three men. Around a spoonful of stew, he realizes and interrupts her story, “You fought the Minotaur while pregnant!?” 

Kassandra smiles sheepishly around the piece of bread in her mouth, biting off the chunk and leaving a smearing of goat’s cheese on the tip of her nose. “I knew you’d be angry,” she says with a small hint of embarrassment once she swallows her food. “I didn’t know until I had already found the key and I had promised Ardos-“ 

“Kassandra!” Brasidas yells, slamming his hand on the table and startling both of them with his outburst. He exhales out of his nostrils, tries to remind himself that she didn’t do it maliciously, that she was here now, that their child was still safe. “Be careful,” he settles on, trying his hardest not to sound scolding. He grasps her hand across the table, squeezing it gently, “I can’t lose either of you to your brashness.” 

The air hangs heavy between them, his worrying and her stubbornness clashing noisily in the otherwise silent room. Her jaw tightens and relaxes, Brasidas can see her trying to keep herself from snide comments that will wound deeper than she means them to. “I realized it in the morning; why I kept throwing up all the time and why I was so tired, and then I killed the Minotaur later that day. I didn’t try to endanger either of us. I made a sacrifice to the gods and prayed for two things, to keep our child safe and to bring me home to you.” 

Over the next month, he has to essentially beg her to not sign onto contracts. She leaves him anyways in the middle of the night when he’s sleeping and can’t stop her. Her contracts are shorter now though, only a day or two away and she’s always back without a hair out of place. He dotes over her and she hates it, screaming at him in the middle of his apartment when he jumps up too fast to get her a plum. 

After two months, she relents when her breastplate digs painfully into her stomach. Instead she sits in his apartment – their apartment at this point – and broods. Kassandra is not good at staying still, not that it’s anything new about her. Brasidas has been assigned to training soldiers and providing insight on strategy since his injury, his shoulder and leg occasionally limp and too cumbersome to move in the way war demands. Kassandra spends days with her still-newly-reformed family for the most part, though she frequently travels south to Gytheion to spend the days on the docks with Barnabas and Herodotos. 

Sparta, however, is not known for its secrecy. Soon after Kassandra’s stomach is visible under her peplos, Brasidas receives congratulations from people he doesn’t even know. People give him advice constantly; how to care for the child, how to care for his wife (though they weren’t married, people didn’t seem to care when he corrected them), and the best method for ensuring a strong future warrior. All too often other soldiers come up to him during training, clapping him on the back proudly like they’ve known him for years. “He’ll be the strongest warrior in all of Sparta.” 

The suggestions sting a bit, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth when the soldier leaves. Brasidas wants to ask what if it’s a girl or what if he doesn’t want to go to war like every other son in Sparta, but he bites his tongue and tries to act pleasant. He knows that the comments are meant good-heartedly, by people who want nothing but to see Sparta rise to glory and he does too, but not by drowning his child in Athenian blood before even exiting the womb. Admittedly though, with Kassandra’s track record, that may have already happened. 

Perhaps worse though than strangers he can avoid after leaving the agora, is Kassandra’s family. Myrrine showers them in advice, though hers’ he can put a bit of faith behind. Still, occasionally Kassandra comes home sour, her face contorted into a deep frown and her eyes pierce angrily. “She’s treating me like I’m a child,” Kassandra growls as she leans against a pillow on the kline, absentmindedly rubbing soft circles on her stomach. Brasidas brings over a small plate of grapes and she picks at them, chewing them bitterly. 

“She’s just trying to help.” 

“I know,” Kassandra retorts, “that’s the worst part. I shouldn’t be angry at her when she’s trying to help, but by the gods does she have a lot of ‘advice’ for us.” 

“Such as?” he asks as she finishes off the grapes. He had three. 

Kassandra’s face turns pink as she averts her gaze from him. “To sleep as much as we can before the birth. And to have as much sex as we can. Not those exact words though.” Brasidas laughs at that, partly at the advice and partly at Kassandra’s embarrassment towards the whole thing. “If there is one thing I don’t want to talk with my mater about, it’s sex. And gods, not pregnancy sex.” There’s a pause, Kassandra runs her finger around the thick lip of the plate, “she said it feels better. Fuller.” The blush is creeping down Kassandra’s cheeks, blooming onto her chest as she continues, the red running beneath the hem of her chiton. 

Brasidas takes her hands in his, rubbing his thumb over the raised ridge of the scar on the back of her hand. “Does it?” He inches forward on his chair, leaning in towards her slightly. 

She huffs, “Yes.” Kassandra meets him half way with a kiss, her tongue dipping between his lips and pulling him in closer. 

Eventually, sleeping itself becomes harder for Kassandra. She tosses and turns in the night, probably not kicking at Brasidas’s shins on purpose, but he can’t be certain. Their child is active at night, moving around in the womb and keeping Kassandra up for hours some nights. The uncomfort of being pregnant does not help her in the slightest and she’s groggy and cranky most days now. In the past few weeks, her trips to Gytheion have ceased with her increasing difficulty of mounting Phobos. This leaves her in the apartment or with her family most days, both of which chip at her frayed nerves. 

Kassandra sits up as quickly as she can, flopping a bit less gracefully than she’d ever let anyone besides Brasidas see. “By the gods child, stop!” Brasidas can almost see the scene unfold before him, their child contemplating retirement for the night and then deciding against it. Kassandra groans audibly, tapping gently on her belly, presumably where the baby is kicking. 

He reaches over to her, pulling himself over towards her. He presses a single kiss against her lips, which she begrudgingly returns as he brings his hands to rest on her belly. He loves the way it feels beneath his palms, soft and warm against his skin, rubbing soft circles with his fingertips. Brasidas pulls away from her face, bending down and placing his cheek against her navel. “Hello there, it’s Pater,” he says, though the name still feels foreign on his lips, “Can you please let your mater sleep tonight?” 

The baby punches at his cheek and Kassandra lets out a small laugh. She brings her hand to rest on the top of Brasidas’s head, stroking his hair gently with her thumb. He tries to remember the words to the songs his mother used to sing to him when he was small, but he has a hard time recalling the lyrics. Instead, he hums the tunes against Kassandra’s stomach and feels the baby settle down. “I think he’s listening to you,” Kassandra whispers as Brasidas sings. 

“He?” Brasidas questions, feeling another jab against his cheek when he stops singing. 

Kassandra shrugs her shoulders as he continues onto another lullaby. “It’s a boy, I know that.” Brasidas drums his fingers gently on Kassandra’s skin, singing soft songs until their son falls asleep and Kassandra finally passes out. 

Kassandra is miserable by the ninth month and she drives Brasidas up the wall most days. She doesn’t leave the apartment much anymore, mostly because Brasidas is not the only one who solicits unwanted advice when he steps outside of the house; he just blends in to society easier than one of the most famous women in the city. Kassandra’s feet are swollen and painful, she gets heartburn from everything she eats, and she’s restless to get back to traveling. 

There is an awkward knock at the door one evening, loud and uneven and too hasty. Brasidas opens the door and finds Alexios standing in his doorway, holding a severed head held by its hair. For a split second Brasidas forgets about the family he’s managed to entangle himself in before he motions for Alexios to enter. Alexios still towers over him, and almost everyone in Hellas honestly, and the sight of Alexios in his apartment makes his stomach turn nervously. Logically he knows he’s safe now after the family has spent months rehabilitating Alexios, but the uneasiness persists. Without thinking, Brasidas presses his fingers against the scar from Amphipolis. 

“Brother,” Kassandra says coolly from her chair at the dining table, choosing not to mention the fact that the head Alexios is holding is dripping blood on their floors. “What are you doing here?” Alexios holds the head in front of him like nobody noticed his prize. 

“You should be more careful,” Alexios says, “I caught this agent sniffing around our home. They were probably looking for you.” Alexios sets the head on the table, much to Brasidas’s dismay; they were about to set food out on that very table. If Kassandra is at all surprised by the information, she doesn’t show it. Brasidas on the other hand feels his blood begin to boil in his veins. “You need to be invisible in your condition.” Alexios emphasizes the last word, the disapproval obvious in his voice.

Brasidas sees her jaw clench just the slightest, so subtle he doubts even Alexios would be able to tell. Of all the things she hates about being pregnant, Kassandra hates being seen as weak and invalid. “I would have taken care of him,” Kassandra places her hand on her belly. He doesn’t doubt that she would be able to take care of herself if need be, but gods, the idea of someone coming to harm her like this makes Brasidas see red. Kassandra’s grip on her stomach tightens, “but thanks for dealing with that, this time.” 

Alexios scoffs and Brasidas expects a snide retort that will result in a fight, but the remark never comes. Kassandra reaches out with her free hand towards the head, running her finger along the severance, the tendons and flesh staining her skin red with blood. Her face softens at the contact, the last memory of blood running down her fingers and her spear pressing through a cultist’s torso too long ago. “Are you staying for dinner?” 

“You wish, at least Mater’s cooking is edible.” And there the fight begins. 

After Alexios leaves, the night is spent scrubbing the table and the floors of the cultist guard’s blood, Kassandra rubbing at the table as Brasidas tackles the floors. “Gods, how could we be so naïve?” Kassandra growls, “Of course the cult would be searching for me. It’s been too long since I sent them to Hades.” 

“They could have been looking for Deimos,” Brasidas offers, though they both know better. 

“I’ll kill every single one of those damn malakes, make them regret the day they fucking joined. They have to know I’m pregnant; I’ll run my spear through every one of them for even thinking about touching my child.” Kassandra grips the edge of the table so tightly he worries for the wood, her knuckles white and her jaw line tight. “If they want me, then they can have me, but they will leave my baby alone. I’ll end them all.” Kassandra lets out an angry huff of air before she releases the table and presses a palm against her bump. Brasidas rises from kneeling on the floor, his leg protesting angrily at the sudden movement. He takes her hands in his and presses a gentle kiss against her forehead. “I swear, I will protect this baby with all of my life.” 

Two weeks later, Kassandra is waiting for him after returning from the agora, pacing around the small main room. “Brasidas, get my mater.” He sets the fruit and meat on top of the now-permanent bloodstain on the table before he can remove his outer winter cloak. He kisses Kassandra once on the cheek before he leaves, weaving his way through the alleyways in Sparta. There is the softest dusting of snow falling from the sky as he follows the twists and turns of the streets. He arrives at Kassandra’s childhood home and finds Myrrine standing outside with a small bag of things, accompanied by a trusted midwife, Galyna, who he’s met a small handful of times. Galyna was a small woman whose personality ruled the scene when she was in control, nearing sixty years old and didn’t bother with many of the unnecessary pleasantries the younger generations did. Her eyes were kind though and Brasidas felt a sense of compassion that reminded him of his grandmater. 

He waves to the women, who are already expecting him somehow. “Myrrine, Galyna,” he greets, “Kassandra asked for you, but you seem to already know that. How?” Myrrine pulls him in for a hug and a kiss on both cheeks before motioning to Ikaros, perched on the roof of the family home and preening himself. In response, Ikaros turns to him and caws loudly, as if to acknowledge his assistance. Myrrine takes Brasidas's arm and leads him throughout the city using a different, more complex route, making idle chatter with Galyna. There hadn’t been any movement from any other cultists around Sparta, but still the threat pushes them to keep as much information as possible locked away in their apartment. Neither him nor Kassandra want to draw attention to themselves now either, lest a potential crowd form outside of his apartment with hopes of seeing the newborn first. 

The next twelve hours are a blur of Kassandra exclaiming every expletives she’s ever known and Brasidas trying his best to blend into the wall. If he could do something, anything, to help he would, but Brasidas flounders in this situation. He hates this feeling of uselessness, knowing that he can’t do anything to alleviate any of the stress on Kassandra. When the blood flows out of Athenian arteries or the vena cava of cultists, he knows what to do. He can control the chaos of the battlefield better than the chaos of their bedroom when Kassandra’s contractions hit. Childbirth, though certainly bloody in nature, contains a multitude of other fluids and excrements that he’s not sure how to factor in. 

For what it’s worth, Kassandra takes the entire thing in stride. She’s no stranger to pain, nor the strength needed to continue when there seems to be no end to the tunnel, but he still wishes he could help more than let her crush his hand in her grip. Even Brasidas knows that the pain is different between having an arrow embed itself in your flesh and your body trying to tear itself in two. All he can do is let her lean on him and massage the parts of her back that ache when the contractions peak and crest. He tests out soft encouragements when she’s almost fully dilated, unsure if she wants him to talk or just pretend like he doesn’t exist. At first, she doesn’t respond and he thinks she didn’t hear him over her own yelling, but she relaxes her grip on his hand and apologizes. “Keep doing that,” she commands simply and he beams a bit; showering Kassandra with compliments and encouragement is something that he can easily keep doing. 

Pushing goes fast and then slow, like the tide lapping at the shores of Lakonia. Two steps forward and one step back. Time drags on as Kassandra’s pushing and he wants this all to be over for her sake. She’s become quiet now, grunting when she pushes and catching her breath when she’s resting. He has lost all feeling in his hand when Galyna confirms that it’s a boy. The baby is quickly brought up to Kassandra’s chest, all bloodied and wrinkled and pink. Galyna and Myrrine wipe at the baby’s face, arm and chest as Kassandra arranges him in her arms, sweat dripping down her brow and her voice hoarse. “Brasidas,” Kassandra whispers over and over, like he isn’t there next to her, afraid to reach out and touch his own son. “By the gods Brasidas.” 

He presses the back of his index finger against the baby’s cheek, soft and warm, his heart flooding with love. Their son is perfect, Kassandra counts the small fingers and the small toes as Myrrine brings a simple, worn white blanket to wrap the baby in. Myrrine makes the transition from assistant to grandmater in record time, settling herself next to Kassandra on the side opposite of Brasidas. “What will you name him?” 

“Elpidios,” Brasidas responds. They had gone back and forth over names, on if they should name him in honor of the family line, like Leon or Nikias. After months of debate, they’d decided on a name without connections or any grand legacy to live up to. His bloodline alone will ensure greatness without the necessity of a namesake. Kassandra kisses at the top of Elpidios’s head, tears streaking down her face as she whispers soft adorations to him. The baby already has a soft tuff of brown hair covering his head and his eyes are the same beautiful golden color as Kassandra’s. 

Through the small bedroom window, Brasidas sees the snowflakes falling on the sill, accumulating into a thin layer of white across Sparta. It will melt quickly in the morning sun, but Brasidas will wake with warmth in his heart as he watches Kassandra hold their son. Elpidios will be wrapped tight in the white blanket and when he catches sight of his pater, will babble approvingly. “The rest of my family will be here soon,” Kassandra will mention, “Nikolaos, Alexios, Stentor, Barnabas, Herodotos. We might not have room for them all.” Brasidas will laugh softly before pressing the softest kiss to the Elpidios’s forehead and then Kassandra’s and then thank every god on Mount Olympus for the happiness he couldn’t have imagined half a year ago.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry i am not very good at names so i just went with the default.
> 
> bonus:
> 
> Alexios: Are you sure he’s full sized, he seems small. (He's a newborn, brother.) 
> 
> Stentor: Hopefully he’s more obedient on the battlefield than his mater. (And hopefully a better commander than Stentor will ever be.)
> 
> Nikolaos: ...Congratulations. (Thank you, Pater.)
> 
> Barnabas: This child will be the strongest, most fierce warrior across all of Hellas! Even the gods themselves will fear the mighty Elpidios! (He needs to learn how to hold his head up on his own first.)
> 
> Herodotos: He looks healthy and so do you Kassandra, I'll pray for your speedy return to the Adrestia. There’s much to be done still. (It's always business with you Herodotos, isn't it.)


End file.
